


Glass Isn't Supposed To Do That

by DarkMoonMaiden



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: (not too detailed), Domestic Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, Tattoos, UMY Secret Santa, Urban Magic Yogs, descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 09:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5534870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkMoonMaiden/pseuds/DarkMoonMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snippets of the lives of the Garbage Court, and the oddities that come with living with a kelpie, selkie, and gargoyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Glass Isn't Supposed To Do That

**Author's Note:**

> This is a gift for jazelock on tumblr for the UMY secret santa exchange :) I had so much fun writing this and I really hope you like it!

It was a rare, quiet morning, the sun just starting to lighten the sky. The Yuletide party from the night before had left the three fae tired and more than slightly hungover (save for Ross, who had an annoying intolerance to alcohol), magic low from using it well into the night for powering traditional rituals of good luck.

Making it to the bed had been too much of a hassle for Smith and Trott, so they’d pulled all of the pillows and cushions off of the couch and chairs in their living room, making a pile on the ground and sprawling over it as they awkwardly fumbled with taking off their clothes. Ross managed to snag a few blankets before he was called for and shoved in between the other two.

Sips had gone to visit his sister and her family for the holidays after she’d threatened bodily harm if he didn't. She’d just had a baby, and Sips would be lying if he said he wasn’t desperate to see the new little one and spend some time catching up with her. Even though it made the rest of his court more nervous than ever at the idea of sending their king off alone to a foreign place, Sips had been adamant that he’d be going by himself and he’d be safe.

“Don’t worry,” Sips had said, flapping an unconcerned hand at the three worried fae as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “It’s only for a couple of days. And my sister’s paranoid enough that she has, like, _twenty_ protection spells all over the house to keep her baby safe. It'll be fine.”

That had been four days ago, and he was due to return that day. He had checked in every night, and the other three of the Garbage Court reluctantly allowed themselves to relax, assured that their king was safe and sound.

Now, Ross trailed the tip of a finger over Trott’s bare chest, following the dark swirls of the tattoos. Some time in the middle of the night, they had all shifted until Trott was in the middle, the other two lying curled up on his sides. Ross secretly enjoyed being in the center, having both of them drunkenly nuzzle into him and press sleepy kisses to his neck, but he wouldn’t complain. Being able to cuddle like this with them was enough.

The selkie scrunched his face, goosebumps pimpling his skin at Ross’ cold touch.

“Stop that,” he grumbled, grabbing Ross’ hand. “You’re too cold.”

“Sorry,” Ross said sheepishly, pulling his hand back.

Trott didn’t let him, taking his hand between his own and rubbing them together. The gargoyle could only slightly feel that his marble skin was soaking up heat from the other man, warming to something bearable for the selkie's real skin.

Trott sighed in satisfaction. “There. Now go for it.”

Ross bit his lip to hide his grin as he obediently continued his ministrations. Trott let out a pleased rumble, relaxing back into the makeshift bed.

“Where’d you get these?” he asked softly, tracing what seemed to be the oldest of the tattoos. It reminded him of the small glimpses he’d managed to get of the manuscripts in the church, all detailed knots and delicate swirls, except they lacked the vibrant colors of the manuscripts.

Trott glanced down at the one Ross was currently on. “Well, the one you’re touching was from my fifteenth birthday,” he said slowly. “It was traditional, with my family--not just them, all selkie groups do it, but this one’s special to our clan. A sort of ‘coming of age,' to say that I was old enough to actually have some standing in the clan.”

Ross made a thoughtful noise, soaking up the new information. “What about this one?” he asked, motioning to another.

“That one was for my first kill,” he said. “It was right after my fifteenth birthday--actually, it was probably closer to my sixteenth. It was some mean, old hag who lived in a fishing village, near to where we lived.” He heard the disgusted grunt from Smith and chuckled. “I didn’t sleep with her. It was just a kill--she’d been trying to kidnap other selkies in the area for years, and it was decided she needed to be taken out.”

His eyes were distant, holding the look that he wore on the rare occasions he talked about his family. Trott always veered away from the topic of his family, only giving vague mentions to him leaving on bad terms with them before moving to the city. The fact that he was talking so much right now was startling, and Ross was careful not to push too hard.

Ross bit his lip, and moved back to safer territory, pointing to one he knew was safe. “And this one?” he asked, pointing to the one on the selkie’s forearm.

Trott’s lips curved into a smile. “You know that one,” he chuckled.

“Not really,” he said earnestly, returning the smile. “I mean, I kind of know. But you've never talked about it.”

“Smith and I got them after we did our blood bonding ceremony,” he said. “Kelpies and selkies love their tattoos, so of course there are special designs for it. We had to change it up, of course, to cut out all of the family symbols, but that didn't matter much. The tattoos sort of make the whole thing more...I dunno. Official?” He shrugged.

Smith rolled up his sleeve to show the matching tattoo that Ross was very familiar with, holding it next to Trott’s arm to show the similarities.

“Not exactly the same, but close enough,” he said. Trott let out a rumbling purr, arm wrapping around the kelpie’s waist and pulling him closer to mouth at his neck. Any reminder of his bond with the other fae pleased him far more than anything else.

Ross couldn’t help the small pang of jealousy and sadness at those words. He knew that the two had been friends years before Smith had picked him up from that abandoned church, so of _course_ they had little things that only the two of them shared, but it didn’t stop the feeling of hurt at the reminder.

“Oi, none of that,” Smith said, slapping Ross on the side of the head. “I can see you overthinking things in that crazy head of yours. Cut it out.”

Ross gave him a rueful smile, and nuzzled in closer to Smith, sharing a kiss that quickly turned heated. He pulled back, resting his chin carefully on Trott’s chest.

“I want a tattoo,” Ross said decisively.

Smith snorted out a surprised laugh. “Mate, and how do you think you’re gonna get one?” he snickered. “Last time I checked, you can’t exactly tattoo marble and gemstones.”

Ross frowned down at his skin. “There’s gotta be a way,” he said. “We can just carve ‘em in!”

“Ross, _no_ ,” Smith and Trott said at the same time, horrified.

“That’s too dangerous,” Trott said quickly. “None of us are good enough at carving to do it, and I sure as hell don’t trust anyone to get that personal with your stone skin.”

“It’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be,” Ross protested, propping his chin up with his hand. “I can barely feel it--it’s more of an annoyance than an actual pain.” Well, that was a bit of a lie. It did cause an odd sensation of pain when his skin was broken, but if it was only a little bit deep, he was confident that it wouldn’t hurt too badly.

“It’s not going to happen,” Trott told him sternly.

Ross scowled, before another idea popped into his head. “Well, what about paint?” Ross suggested, eyes glittering. “Completely harmless, innit?”

Trott froze. “That’s actually not a bad idea,” he said thoughtfully. “Or some kind of dye?”

Ross nodded eagerly. “Can we do it?” he begged. “I really want to.”

Not only would it be a way for him to finally have that same connection with Smith and Trott that they had together, but also there was an element of taboo that made it more exciting. When he was in the church, any sort of dye or paint was forbidden from touching him in fear that it would never come off and the building would be stuck with an imperfect gargoyle. Or, even worse, if he _was_ ruined, they would simply toss him out and create a new one.

Trott nodded. “We’ll go shopping for some tomorrow,” he said, brushing a kiss to Ross’ forehead. “We’ll draw up some designs today.”

Ross grinned up at him, sapphire eyes sparkling with excitement. He opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Sips bursting in, carrying his suitcase and a bunch of boxes.

“Merry Christmas, motherfuckers!” he shouted. “Didja miss me? That flight back was _terrible_. It was like a whole nursery was in the plane. What’s up with the puppy pile on the floor, huh?”

The moment was broken, and they all got up, going to make breakfast and listen to Sips’ complaints.

***

Trott glanced into the bathroom on his way to the kitchen and saw that the tub was filling up unnaturally fast, pouring from the faucet at an alarming rate. It abruptly stopped before it could overflow, the water going still.

“I thought I told you to not use your magic for the bath,” Trott called to Smith. “It messes with the pipes.”

“Fuck off, Trott, it’s fine,” the kelpie chuckled, walking passed him with a towel on his arm. “Waiting for the tub to fill up on its own time takes _forever_.”

Trott rolled his eyes, knowing better than to fight him. Smith shucked his clothing off and slipped down into the bath, letting out a long, pleased groan. He kept his keys in his hand, dangling them off a few fingers over the rim of the tub. His expression was blissful, sinking until the water was up to the bridge of his nose.

“Gods, this feels so good,” he moaned.

“If you turn into your other form and break the tub again, you’re paying for it,” Trott threatened.

“Let that go,” Smith whined, shifting in the water. “It was one time, and I was drunk, alright?”

It was hard to let go the time that his lover had thought it would be funny to turn into a horse while in the bath, resulting in a broken tub, water everywhere, and a startled, loud horse fumbling around in the bathroom.

Trott chuckled, shaking his head and going back into the kitchen to make coffee. Sips and Ross were in the living room, watching some kind of cartoon, and he joined them, ignoring the off-key singing that Smith had started up.

***

It was in the middle of the summer, the sun beating down heavily on the city. All of the non-summer fae were dying in the sweltering heat, filling the waterparks and pools to the brim or staying inside of their apartments with the windows tightly shut and A/C cranked up.

The three of them were lounging on someone’s front steps, smoking cigarettes and watching the children hopping along the hot sidewalk and shrieking with playful annoyance and laughter. Eventually, a shopkeeper showed up, shooing them away with biting words and a shaking fist. The children frowned at him sadly, and started shuffling away.

Even from a distance, the Garbage Court could hear the snarled, hateful words directed towards the fae. A little girl with cotton candy-like hair flinched, bottom lip pushed out and tears threatening to fall.

Trott watched the interaction, his face growing more and more emotionless. Ross glanced at him with a mixture of nervousness and eagerness--it wouldn’t be good to start a fight with a witch in the middle of the day, but _Gods_ did Ross want to throw a few punches at him.

Smith cleared his throat once, and waved his hand to the side in a move that seemed casual and unimportant but was, in fact, very calculated.

All of a sudden, the fire hydrant in front of the man’s shop burst open. Water came spraying out with surprising force, some of it in the street and a large portion of it seeming to bend and spraying directly at the storeowner and the open front door of his shop. The man screeched, backing up and covering his face with his hands even as the water refused to stop, thoroughly soaking him _and_ the inside of his shop.

The children screamed in delight, running into cool water and splashing about, ignoring the man spluttering and struggling to get inside of his shop and close the door. A few more children came out, eager for an escape of the heat.

Smith grinned widely in triumph, not responding to Trott’s curious look. His foot bounced absently as he plucked a cigarette from his jacket and lit it.

***

“Trott, this isn’t even in English,” Smith whined, head lolling back. “How’re we supposed to find that ruddy thing if we can’t even read the directions?”

“Use Google Translate,” Trott muttered absently. He was scowling at his phone, angrily texting their current employer back and forth. “He says that’s the only map to the thing, so please don’t destroy it.”

Smith huffed angrily, setting the book back on the table. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.

“Ross, you speak Latin, right?” Smith said excitedly. He shoved the book closer to the gargoyle. “Tell us what it says.”

Ross stared down at the book, face impassive. “I can’t... _read_ it,” he admitted tightly. “I can understand it, but I was never taught out to read.”

A gargoyle wasn’t supposed to read, and the thought had never crossed the priests’ minds when interacting with him to teach him. He was meant to watch and protect, and that was all. Reading would be a distraction from his work. The Latin that he knew was picked up from the young monks’ lessons in the language, and from the prayers that were delivered in the language.

Smith picked up on the discomfort and embarrassment that Ross felt at the admission. “Well, here,” he said simply, pulling the book onto his lap. “I’ll read it, and you translate it that way, okay?”

Ross’ fists unclenched, the knot in his chest loosening. He nodded, sitting back and listening as Smith fumbled through the words, often missing the pronunciation by miles. Trott sat on the other couch, scribbling down the important parts of the translation.

***

If Smith went too long without hunting, he would start to get antsy, which was putting it lightly.

After one two many close calls with the law, Trott had had to put a limit on how many times Smith could go hunting. The police were much more willing to turn a blind eye to a dead body found every month than a dead body found every week or half a week. It had taken almost a dozen fistfights and arguments before Smith finally threw up his hands and gave in, pouting for days.

The drawback, though, was that Smith became practically _unbearable_ to live with when he was hungry.

It wasn’t too noticeable at first--he would jiggle his knee when sitting, and then start smoking more and more until every empty beer bottle was filled with cigarette butts. It would progress to pacing around the apartment, letting out angry huffs and messing with things. He’d rearrange the living room, knowing that it would piss Sips off, and nosily going through every single drawer and closet in the house, uncaring of anyone’s privacy.

Sips finally intervened when his slippers and matching robe were ‘accidentally’ torn apart, angrily telling Trott that they needed to figure things out, and the Trott was in complete agreement.

Trott had ended up dragging Smith out by the scruff of his neck to a bar, where Smith was quick to pick out a person to drag out to an alley and kill. The selkie had waited in irritation by the car, chain smoking until Smith came swaggering back, seeming livelier and younger than before and unbearably smug.

“So, what was that about a meal every three weeks?” Smith asked innocently.

Trott sent him a glare as they climbed into the car. “Every one and a half weeks,” he finally relented. “Dealing with the police is better than dealing with you going nuts.”

“Aw, I love you, darling.”

***

Trott’s hunting patterns were much more predictable.

The urge to seduce and kill came and went with the phases of the moon, waxing and waning like the tide. When it was a new moon, Trott was at his calmest, not even really wanting any sex from the rest of his court. He’d spend the whole evening lounging in the bath and then watching television or reading, wearing a robe and fuzzy socks.

When it was a full moon, though, Trott was at his most tense and hungry, rivaling even Smith.

If they weren’t having one of their raves, they would go to another party or club. His eyes would be almost completely black as he scanned the crowds, drinking whatever was put in front of him and barely listening to a word anyone said to him.

Smith always felt a twisted pleasure when he saw Trott like that. It was usually the kelpie who was the one who lost control, and seeing the usually (relatively) even-tempered fae lose it was satisfying in a very primal way. He’d whisper into Trott’s ear, directing him towards a prime target before disappearing to find his own or to watch his lover hunt. He knew better than to try and join in, knowing that it would just end up with Trott’s anger turned on him.

So instead, he would find his own victim and have his own night out, or sit back with Ross and Sips at a bar or in a lounge, flirting with whoever came near and struck his fancy, and then go back to the apartment to wait for Trott to come back in, eyes black as night and hunger sated.

***

Ross grunted in pain as he was led through the doorway, Smith and Trott barely managing to hold him up. He tried to stand as best as he could, but every time he stepped on his left leg, the crack in his thigh grew bigger, dust and pieces of rock falling from it.

“Set him down, easy, set him down,” Trott urged, dragging the gargoyle to one of the kitchen chairs. It creaked dangerously under the gargoyle’s weight, but it had been heavily reinforced specifically for him. “Smith, go get some glass and put it on the stove, hurry.”

Sips heard the commotion and came in, wearing a robe and slippers, his eyes widening. “Jesus, what happened?” he exclaimed, watching as Trott took out a knife and cut up Ross’ pant leg, revealing the crack. Ross felt unease roll through him at the sight of it, and forced himself to look away.

“Deal gone wrong,” Smith spat. He clattered around the cupboards until he found the specific pan he needed, chucking it on the stove and activating the sigils by lighting the stove under it. “Some asshole started shooting, and got Ross real bad. Go get that powder in the bathroom--the red stuff.”

Sips nodded hastily, nearly dropping his coffee cup in his rush to set it down and run to the bathroom.

Smith ripped open one of the cabinets and grabbed two of the glass cups there. He wrapped them in a towel, setting on the ground before stomping on it repeatedly until they were broken to his satisfaction. He picked up the towel and dumped it into the pan as Sips came in, with the small packet of powder. The kelpie snatched it out of his hands and emptied its contents into the pan as well.

Almost immediately, steam started to rise from it, and Sips peeked in to see that the glass was _melting down_ , turning into what looked water, or syrup. “I don’t think that’s how melting glass works, guys,” he hesitantly said to Smith as he shook the pan, moving the liquid around.

“It is when you add that to it,” he said tensely, tossing the now empty packet towards the garbage can. “Go calm Ross down, this'll be ready in a minute.”

Ross was staring resolutely straight ahead, breathing heavily through his nose. Trott was crouched in front of him, holding his leg and muttering soothing words to him. Sips hesitantly went and stood behind Ross, raising a hand to card through his hair. He feared that the gargoyle was going to pull away, but was startled when he leaned back heavily, pressing his face into Sips’ T-Shirt.

“Hey, buddy,” Sips said, trying to keep his tone light. “How you feelin’?”

“Hurts like hell,” Ross managed to get out.

“Well, Smiffy and Trott here are gonna fix you up, good as new,” he human said decisively. “Their king demands it, so it’s gonna happen.” That managed to draw a small chuckle from Ross and a quick smirk from Trott.

“‘S ready,” Smith said, turning off the stove. He picked up the pan, moving towards them. “Trott, hold ‘im down. Sips, stay outta the way.”

Ross braced himself as the kelpie started to slowly pour the glass straight into the cut. He hissed in pain at the first touch, gripping the edge of the table hard enough to make the wood splinter. Sips’ face paled violently when he saw the glass turn into a bone, tinted red. The molten glass morphed oddly around it, pulling out into individual strands of muscle and sinew, layering and layering as the area was rebuilt.

“Oh, that is _disgusting_ ,” Sips choked out, putting a hand over his mouth. None of the fae glanced up, too busy making sure that everything set right.

Trott kept his grip on Ross’ leg until all of the glass was poured out, still tinted red and somehow managing to stay without spilling out, forming perfectly into the spaces that had broken away. As it cooled, the red started to fade away, until all was left was clear glass, molded to Ross like it had always been a part of him.

Ross panted, slowly letting go of the table and flopping back into the chair. Smith let the pan clatter into the sink, and Trott stood up. They stayed in the kitchen for a few minutes in silence, watching as Ross gathered his composure and tested out his leg, putting pressure on it. The glass held perfectly in place.

“Good as new,” he assured the others in his court, standing up carefully.

“That was so fucked up,” Sips told them bluntly. Ross shrugged and gave him a smirk. 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas!


End file.
